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wicked and that ain't so easy
 
"if there were but world enough and time..."

but there isn't.

so......spit it out.
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the reality of resistance
Posted:Apr 8, 2017 4:56 pm
Last Updated:Apr 19, 2017 2:08 pm
15849 Views

The reality of resistance is less appealing than the idea of resistance. The reality is a lot of mind numbing paperwork, telephone calls, texting and emailing. It’s pushing people out of the ideal and into actual time. It’s making the fun of the woman’s march the daily grind of spitting out letters, cold calling people who hang up on you, showing up to meetings at 8 PM cuz that’s when people can get there and there’s no thanks a lot, or vendors with fried dough or any goodies…..so bring your own shit with you.

But you show up, because you said you would, and if you don’t then it fucks up the schedule of the poorly oiled machine we have almost running. Sure you’re a volunteer but it’s still a commitment douchebag.

So for about 20-25 hours a week I spend my time working with two of the larger sector resistance movements - the GLBTQ and the Political MOB, aka Move On Boston which is semi tied to the ACLU and Warren. In one place I am strategizing at a higher level because I know some stuff about the government contracts and can field calls on homelessness. In the other, my friend and I do hands on training on how to be a street rebel for when the cops stop being benevolent, which, surprise, surprise has already begun.

Gay Pride is soon. It’s a huge parade with lots of dance parties in the South End and a big festival on the esplanade. Usually, it’s sort of like Mardi Gras. GLAD is expecting a bit more resistance this year. Anyway, Weezer and I were tagged because of our experience in methodology, so we’re teaching passive resistance. Or “ how to be heard but not hurt” aka Civil disobedience 101. We do small classes because it’s physical and you have to do it hands on, so usually only about 20 per class.

The other night, we’re on the second class which is primary confrontation, linked arms, seated barriers and what to do when cops approach with batons. Remember, our class is young, GLBTQ. We are now all seated with linked arms at the elbow and a hanclasp to the next person. It’s very hard to break.

I approach menacingly. “Now, go full body limp.”

Immediately breaking the barrier line, one of the protestors, frantically waves his hand.

“Yuh?”

“Do you mean rigid limp?”

I answered in a sotto voice. “Uh, that would be an oxymoron.”

Tilting his head, he looks at me and asks…..” um, is that a religion?”

My BFF Weezer who has gone full body limp (I do believe she may also have pissed herself) is gasping for air as she tries in vain to cover her hilarity with a fake coughing fit while two other would be protestors try to disengage their locked arms from her.

I point to Weezer,

“See, like Louise.” I say, just as Weezer tips over in utter defeat.

And the barrier face plants.

image in comments cuz it won't stick here
13 Comments
You are SO out of here
Posted:Apr 5, 2017 3:24 pm
Last Updated:Apr 8, 2017 5:01 pm
17874 Views
I once rented an apartment from a woman who was a seamstress. She set up her sewing room in the front parlor of this old saltbox that sat directly on the sidewalk of Brattle Street heading out of Harvard Square. In the summer months, you could hear the needle passing through the cloth, her soft humming as you passed the window. The front door led to stairs that passed by the door to the sewing room. It was expected that one would stop to speak, to pass time, to acknowledge our shared space. Her name was Petra Bier. Her adult also lived there as did their german shepherd, both preternaturally quiet, given to suddenly appearing from the shadows.

My apartment consisted of a skint of a kitchen, one large room, a bedroom fashioned out of what had clearly been a front porch, with a corner lopped off for a bathroom. The bedroom pitched forward to such a degree that the bureau had to be shimmed to keep it from flying out the front window. The bed was wedged in tight so it had nowhere to go. Closets? Nope. The roomroom, was jammed full with a couch, table, two comfy chairs and a shit ton of books. Oh, and mice.

I didn’t much mind the little beggars. I would lie there reading, sipping wine, eating cheese and apples and watch as they stole pieces, scurrying away tails twitching. I had some humane traps and would catch and release them out to the back garden.

I was “entertaining” one evening. We had just finished the first of what I hoped would be many courses, I was laying across his chest limp as a dishrag only to feel myself suddenly flying across the room and landing unceremoniously on the floor near the shower. Not a huge distance but not a bad throw from a supine position.
The poet come taxi driver was dancing on the bed, manhood flapping.

While this was normally a show I might have enjoyed, my coccyx was complaining about the hard landing and he was squealing like a little girl. A mouse? Had touched his skin. Little tiny feet. I think it was that ….the little tiny feet that did me in. So rather than being empathetic to his skeezed outness, I got the giggles. He left, furious with me.



I got some nastier poison traps since it seemed like the catch and release wasn’t cutting down on the numbers much. Supposedly they’d eat and then wander off to die. Fast forward two weeks or so. Same poet, same scenario. About the same time in the process and he screeches in my ear, look, look.

Pointing at the floor, I watch as a tiny mouse enters stage left. And then takes 15 minutes to do the most excruciating death scene one can imagine. Reeling, wrenching, on its back convulsing, staggering, spasming, my god, it was Oscar worthy. We sat, unmoving, eyes pinned to this poor little thing until at last with a twirl……uh huh, a twirl, it gave up the goddamn ghost. BRAVA!

He shoved me with his foot. Flush it he said.

Wait, what? He wants me to pick it up and flush it?? Fucking hell.

Now here’s the thing. Normally, I would have picked it up and flushed it, no problem, but I am so over this dude right now, no way am I flushing the mouse. So, I curl up in a ball and sob, I can’t, I can’t, I killed it, oh god, oh god. You made me kill it. And then I slapped him when he tried to comfort me. How could you, I moaned. This is all your fault. Did you see that poor thing suffer?

Ever watch a man dress himself without touching foot to floor? It’s fun. Anyway, he left, skirting the mouse by the largest margin possible which would have been about 7” give or take. I lit a cigarette, grabbed a tissue, flushed the little guy then ate the leftover pizza.

Oh and I tossed the poison traps, ick.
13 Comments
Symposim 29 Hotel. Fire of Life
Posted:Apr 1, 2017 1:59 pm
Last Updated:Apr 4, 2017 2:17 pm
16808 Views


There’ was a hotel just a few miles across the border, a place that women came. It was dirty, mean, smelled of blood, urine. The women who visited were dressed well. Usually they came alone. Sometimes accompanied by a man. They would drive up in taxis, step out, look around as if they must be mistaken, checking the paper in their hand. Some got back into the cars. Most didn’t.

The traffic in and out of the hotel was slow but steady. Few decided to stay the night. There is no pool, no restaurant, no concierge. Look, it is barely standing. Indeed, there is nothing in the village that speaks of comfort. A bar, a bodega, a scattering of houses in varying states of decay.

Ah, but wait, at the far end, set back from everything else, a grand hacienda, a Granja, with horses roaming a meadow. Many times the taxis drive first to this place, only to be redirected.

The women who visit the hotel, they need the arm of someone to help them back into the taxi as they leave. If they come with someone, they may leave supported but en lagrimas.

No one says anything to the women. Unacknowledged, they do not exist. Shadows.

The fires on Friday empty the tiny village. They are never lit until the sun is down, until the hotel closes. The villagers drift out, finding a place to sit upwind together, sharing food, singing, chanting until the smoke is a memory and the skies run clear. The , freed during the fire, wave bright trailing ribbons in long circles over their heads. The horses in the meadow raise their heads, scenting the smoke.

It is difficult, no? To cull the sacred from the profane.
9 Comments
It was something else.
Posted:Mar 28, 2017 2:41 pm
Last Updated:Apr 1, 2017 1:32 pm
17599 Views


One day when I was young, I was sitting by the Charles River contemplating whether I would leave my current useless lover, smoking a cigarette. It was hot but not that hot. I had on this gypsy skirt I had pulled up to uncover my knees, leaning back on my elbows, hair a mass of humidity driven curls. Me, cigarettes, a key on a chain thingy around my neck. Kind of a mess.

A guy in a suit sits down next to me, reaches over, curls a piece of my hair around a finger. I know, right? I look at him like hello, back up dude, and he leans in, kisses me. This is when I should have left. Instead, I find myself staring at polished black shoes, thinking what is going to happen next, don’t say anything, drag on the cigarette, grind it out in the grass.

He stands, offers a hand up which I accept. We walk companionably together along the river. The sky begins to darken, I feel the first rain drop hit my skin as we start across the bridge near the stadium. Within seconds, it is a downpour. In the middle of the bridge, he pushes me back against the stone, his mouth on my neck, his hands lifting me off the ground.

I feel his teeth on my shoulder. Grabbing my hand, he drops me, we turn, run for shelter, feet splashing through puddles. The air is dense, thunder rolling now in long cascades. Under the abutment of the bridge, I breathe in and out, trying to find some words, finding only need as he takes me, as I come with one leg wrapped around his waist, the other seeking purchase on stones slippery with lichen, dripping with rain, my skirt pushed up around my waist, draping everything. Savagely demure.

The sound of his climax seconds after mine was all I had of his voice. The gentling of his touch as he helped me up the incline…the softness of his hand on my cheek as he walked away. I burst out laughing as I ran back across the bridge down the street where I fell into a bar I knew well. Poor drowned rat was given a bourbon and a towel before being sent off home. I strutted, I owned the world.

You can say what you will about it. I might have been killed. Dude got lucky. But for me, at that exact moment in my life? It was something else.
9 Comments
leaving
Posted:Mar 26, 2017 10:23 am
Last Updated:Mar 29, 2017 1:01 pm
17116 Views
So quiet here, the thick walls seem to stop even the air from shifting. Lying on the wooden plinth, the deep blue of the sky unbroken above, her eyes nearly sightless, it was the shadow of a feeling on her hand that shallowed her breath.

What do you wish from me?


The air was charged from her thought. The peace of the garden shattered. Her body was still, and yet there was a readiness, long missing. Clouds began to scud into each other above her in the deep blue sky .Her attenuated neck, exposed, vulnerable.

A sweet smell of decay drifted past. Not unpleasant, ripe. Rich, fecund. Like earth being turned. Her eyes closed against the sun as it climbed past the roof. Soon it would be time.

She listened, still nothing. The weight of the brocade. a bad choice. Ah, but she loved the silver tones. She’d not thought beyond that.

what if nothing happens?

unable to bear the thought, she moved out of the garden.

Looking back, she watched the sun catch the silver of the brocade. It had been the right choice.
13 Comments
shibari, as art
Posted:Mar 23, 2017 2:34 pm
Last Updated:Nov 17, 2017 12:16 pm
18016 Views
i'm placing one photo here, the rest inside.

some of these have been sent to me by other folks but some you can just google yourself. all of them are in my mind's eye, beautiful

judge for yourself



I love the feeling of being tied down, unable to move. shibari takes this a bit beyond that. the process can take hours. it is a game of patience. of supplication. a meditative state in some cases. it can involve play. or it can simply be the process in and of itself. the binding. suspension shibari takes extra skill because the binding must support the weight of the submissive's body. think of a bridge..........

I like the plain rope, some prefer color, or black against the skin. the knots are intricate, tight, beautiful. a shibari corset is like no other corset. the breath is held back to sips of air. the Master is on constant alert.
20 Comments
Stew for Spunky
Posted:Mar 21, 2017 4:48 pm
Last Updated:Mar 26, 2017 12:34 pm
18256 Views
It was dark by the time they emerged from the bedroom. The asleep on the floor by the stove. He moved loosely now, his body his own again, filled the stove with kindling, stoked the fire in the chimney, adding logs. Stilled, he leaned, watching her as her hair picked up the firelight, as her bare feet silently moved between the sleeping babies, as her arms moved this here, that there, her cheeks still rosy, a smile occasionally lifting her lips, her teeth biting it back. He watched the calves of her legs lengthen as she reached for plates, feeling himself harden.

She turned, the plates in hand, caught his eyes on her. Her lips parted. How is this possible she thinks, this need, this want. Her breath coming now in short pants as he moved closer, jeans low on his hips.

He tips her onto the table, his thumb in her mouth, to stop her noise like she would with the little ones she thinks as she sucks it in. The sound of his pants hitting the floor startles her, but his hand on her back keeps her from moving. She feels the heat of the stove on her legs, the roughness of his hand on her thighs. His knee presses her legs apart. Will he know. Please.

He cups her ass, lifting one cheek, yes, more, pops his thumb from her mouth. He moves to the side, whispers “not a sound”, his mouth hot on her neck. She grasps the edges of the table. His cock slides between her thighs, slicking itself. His fingers tangle into her hair, yanking her head back, arching her body.

“Flat on your feet. Steady, ass out.”

Please, please, please she intones inside her mind, not a sound passing her lips.

His tongue circles her tight little hole prodding, a finger stretching it, pulling it from side to side. His cock in and out of her cunt to slather it with her creaminess.
His hand over her mouth, he pushes slowly against the resistant hole, she pushes back, yes.. Her body bucks and settles. His trust is that she will not scream, hers that he will make her fly, his long strong fingers deep inside her pussy pushing up against his cock inside her

Her body is His place of worship, a sacred vessel for this man to fill. The colors chasing the fire inside of her, pain twisting into pleasure so deep that tears fall unheeded, needed. It is in this place of union that she will always surrender, a surrender that fills her with absolute glorious power. She laughs as she weeps.

Collapsed, they lay on the table like fallen angels. When he stands, she stands. She moves to wash him. His hands buried in her hair, his lips never leaving her skin.

“Sit.” Eat, she thinks. He pulls her to his side. She leans there, her fingers in his hair, scratching, calming.

“You laughed”. Tenderness in his voice.

She smiles above his head. “hmm.”

“5 count.”

She nods, sighing contentedly, moving to set his dinner on the table.

11 Comments
coming back
Posted:Mar 17, 2017 2:02 pm
Last Updated:Mar 24, 2017 10:24 am
18971 Views
The trees had snapped back, all the snow now on the ground, melting quickly under the March sun. He stood by the stream, watching the water rise with the melt, spinning the fallen branches down past the turn, his hand idly rubbing Alpha’s thick ruff. The traps were in, weighted. They’d hold.

He had two hares in his pack, field gutted. It was time to turn towards home but the land held him. The smell of the earth as it softened, gave. It was like smelling life again. The winter had weighed him down, made him pull in. Now he breathed deep. The work was coming. He pushed his hood back. Sun on his head, he knelt down by his dog. Took that moment to feel his body on his land, to open again.

Three months with snow so deep that tracking was nearly impossible. He’d managed to down an elk, small game. Everything that could be done had been done. Repairs finished so long ago he’d been hard pressed to find use of himself.
The walk home was more than an hour but he walked it with his eyes and his ears.

Bird calls that he’d been missing. A snowbell that he plucked and placed carefully in his pocket. His skis slid easily over the wet snow, the sun began its slow sinking, the sky becoming a palette of, and pinks so deep that he stood at the top of the hillock, watching them turn his home into a bronzed haven.



His woman opened the door, her hair lit like fire. His breath caught.

The sun was in her eyes, she could not see him so he watched her. Watched her pace the porch. Watched as she wrapped her arms around her stomach. Watched with such deep desire as she stood there legs spread, so natural to her now.
He began to run. She saw him, her face lighting, her hand up in greeting. The was there before him. Not by much.

He picked her up in his arms, she slapped at him, laughing. His mouth was on hers stopping the sound. She smiled into his shoulder. He handed her the snowbell. Only then did she weep. Life was everywhere, abundant.

As he carried her inside the sound of his greeted him, the smell of food made his stomach growl, the fire warmed him, her weight filled him with a need so deep he nearly cried out with the joy of it. He set her down, his hands sliding over her, he felt her knees go, caught her. The sound she made, brought a growl from his throat. She moved the pot to the side of the wood stove, ran for their room. Laughing……..he chased her.
7 Comments
Fine, thanks.
Posted:Mar 16, 2017 12:46 pm
Last Updated:Mar 22, 2017 3:35 pm
19419 Views
She crept down the stairs in the dark, seeking the boards that did not squeak. Her stomach roiled, a sour taste rose, coating her tongue. Eyes closed, her hand tracing the flocked wallpaper, her bare feet felt for the wood that signaled the lower floor. Turning right, her back against the wall, she scuttled forward until the wood changed to cold linoleum. She opened her eyes racing now for the door at the back corner of the kitchen. It opened easily, her body slipping through the thinnest crack. She took the three stairs in one leap, landing on all fours, pushing off like a sprinter, disappearing into the dark night.

In the morning, when her sister came down alone, the father asked. A slight shrug was the only reply.

At school, her absence was noted. A call to the home was not answered.
It took 16 days before anyone contacted the family. The was in the fifth grade. It was her teacher that fussed. The police were sent to the house for a wellness check. The was not there. The father said she was out playing. The sister nodded. The father was a fireman, a widower, raising two girls on his own. A good man. A church deacon. Eventually, the town turned out to do a search of the woods. Nothing was found.

On her way to her job at the A&P after school, five years later, the sister was waiting for the light to change at the corner of Oak and Main when a blue Volkswagen bug pulled up alongside her. She was saving for a car, a bug would be good. This one was cool because it had flowers painted on it. Smiling, she moved to cross the street but the car cut in front of her, stopped. She jumped back onto the curb, startled. No one was around, no one to help her. Her arms felt heavy. Her head started to buzz.



“Hey turtlehead.”

She opened the door, climbed in.

“What took you so long?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

The car moved slowly into the traffic, disappeared down the road. The manager from the A&P called the house, but no one answered. The school called too, but only once. The fireman always said she was doing fine, thanks.
11 Comments
OMG............Picasso is alive
Posted:Mar 14, 2017 10:50 am
Last Updated:Mar 16, 2017 1:43 pm
17484 Views

now many of you may not remember Frank Picasso. but if you do, oh if you do.

he's a blogger from the days of yore and the Frog Prince has returned.

you know me and links so I will try to link....god save us all. The man is nutz. crazy like a fox. brilliant, music driven and I used to wait for each post like it was crack.

Frank_Picasso

oh I hope this works..................
9 Comments
and the question is...........
Posted:Mar 13, 2017 4:59 pm
Last Updated:Mar 16, 2017 1:51 pm
18170 Views


In the 6th grade, I met a who was so creative that he wrote plays for our class to perform, one was a musical. This memorized the poem the Highwayman when we had to recite a poem from memory. The rest of us stuck to something manageable. Not Jack, he told us a story, had us on the edge of our seats. He was/is a genius.

He was in my American history class in High School. The teacher was a pedantic SOB name of Dr. Arthur who ruled his classroom like petty old rooster. I tagged him early on, fed him back what he spit out, collected my A’s. Jack, well Jack was more of the road less travelled. He fought for the truth. While admirable, this placed him at great risk in HS. And being creative, that made him suspect for the likes of Dr. Arthur.

As we discussed the Bill of Rights (as much as a monologue can be considered a discussion), Dr. Arthur expounded on the rights of the individual over the rights of the many. Most of us took the hour as needed R&R. Jack, however, took it to heart. When Dr. A. said, any questions, Jack asked one. To this day, there isn’t a single one of us, including Jack that can remember the question that he asked. I doubt Dr. Arthur remembers it either. It was not the question, it was the temerity of the deed. The gall, the audacity, the chutzpah if you will.

It was likely the very first question ever asked in one of Dr. Arthur’s classes. I would posit it was definitely the last. Whatever it was, it was a question that was of contrary belief to the gist of Dr. Arthur’s finely tuned rendering of the BOR. It threw him off his steed. Broke his rhythm…caused a breach in the space/time continuum.

The class went from slumbering to alert. Dr. Arthur moved as though on skates, reaching Jack’s desk in seconds. And then in happened. With spittle flying, He screamed, “You little faggot” and slapped him across his face.
Stunned, Jack just sat there. I jumped up, ran over and screamed, “You can’t say that”, grabbed Jack’s arm and dragged him out of the room. Not you can’t DO that……….jeeze. Wtf.

Two dudes off the BB team grabbed Dr. A, who had started after us and held him back, while Jack and I sprinted to the office. Jack meantime, was laughing like a loon. I peed my panties. It was a shit show. More followed us, everyone shouting. Police, ambulance, fire engines. All the students evacuated. …..although that was just overkill. I mean he was a 60 year old 5’4” narcissist with high blood pressure not a ninja death squad.

Dr. Arthur had tenure but left. Jack’s parents threatened to sue, but didn’t. I got an award for moral courage and integrity. On the way to the stage to collect it, the elastic on my panties let go and I had to walk out of them (to the standing ovation from the front row who saw it happen). Jack was NOT gay but played one in the senior drama/musical production that he wrote. He said if I’d waited a few seconds longer to react, he’d have punched him back. This I regret. The rest, I’m cool with; well not the panties.
7 Comments
two B's and a C
Posted:Mar 10, 2017 12:20 pm
Last Updated:Mar 16, 2017 2:07 pm
18473 Views


Charlie met Boomer and Bartlet (yes, it’s one t, ) at the park after lunch. It’s snowing in that soft way that quiets everything and there was a low fog that made the ground lift up and blur. Boomer and Bartlet are pups about 5 months old. They cede Alpha to Charlie in play which is good for his hips but still tussle with him which is good for his weight.

Boomer had some snarls on his snout a while back and his Dad took him to a pet store instead of a groomer. Boomer is a gorgeous fluffy 40 pounds of messy black and white fuzz. When he appeared, post desnarling we all gave him conciliatory rubs and extra treats. Poor thing, he knew his cuteness had been mega compromised. Dogs have egos.

Bartlet is a brown lab with the softest most liquid golden eyes. He will slip between your legs or lean against your flank and just stare at you…..i call them cookie eyes. And he wins, every time. Not at all pushy, just brilliantly compelling in his demeanor, wistful almost. ‘I would take it if offered but really ma’am, nothing is expected.’ A con dog.

Without the wind, it was easy to just stand, chat, watch them play, the conversation drifting from politics to music to poop to men to night crawlers……..women are so varied, eclectic and yet we have this common thread. We have a flow that is much like water, easily diverted and yet singularly driven to an end goal. I know men wonder how we can spend hours just talking without an activity. I wonder how they can’t.

I was having lunch with a friend the other day. We were talking a mile a minute and a group of 8 young men sat down next to us. We’d been there an hour already. They all immediately opened phones and not a word was exchanged until they ordered. Meals came, they ate in silence while occasionally doing something on their phones. They left. We stayed at least another hour after that. It was so other that JJ noted it. Why go to lunch together? What’s the point? As we were leaving, still talking, walking to our cars, she said something hilarious and we fell into each other laughing. I remember thinking at that moment, I will know her for the rest of my life. I wonder if any of those young men have had that thought, or does that not compute?

This is a blog about nothing much or it’s about something. You choose.
7 Comments
when your death can be of value
Posted:Mar 8, 2017 4:10 pm
Last Updated:Mar 10, 2017 1:44 pm
17534 Views

Every Year At This Time

of organs for the use of others when you or a loved one passes over.

please read this post and then make sure you have the organ donor designation added to your driver's license.

thanks
12 Comments

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